Archives for 2012

I live alone on the top floor in the 4th story of a rental tenement in some small-town somewhere in the Northeast of the USA. I definitely don´t want to live there forever. There are more beautiful places, sunnier places, that is where I would love to live, of course, in the best case together with some hot chick. My parents named me Frank, some 42 years ago. The neighbors know me as Mister Miller; the old lady with the freaky dog always only calls me The Man with the Hat. I always wear this hat, though I defiantly take it off on sunny days, though I as well take it off, when the shit hits the fan. I obediently obey my business partners under the name of Fred Winter. I chose that pseudonym some ten years ago, when I became a killer.

My pastimes? You won´t believe it… cooking! Anyone thinking that some contract killer wouldn´t be able to serve any fish sticks appropriate to the species, should visit me in my kitchen! And anyone who thinks he never ate dog should just surprise a Chinese cook on the job.

Another pastime is to tell people lies about my true life, my true identity. This is a sure sign of having a lot of fantasy that I put to paper in my spare time. Of course, I´ve always dreamt of a bestseller, those score like a cheap whore in some residential home for men, with no other intention then to finally retire in Miami, together with my hot chick of course.

On the weekends, I drive the 40 miles with my car into the big city jungle. There is one late night dive, where everyone who is special meets. But most of the ones, meeting there late night, just think, they are something very special. Hot styled chicks stalk on high heels, on their forever quest for the Mr. Right, the one with the thick wallet. But usually, they just run into some bragger, highly indebted, that hauls them home to nevertheless have the night at least end with some kind of sex. When I am really lucky, then I am one of these dazzlers, passing as a banker, that is going to fly to the Bahamas next week with his private jet, and the damn little cute beast gives me some blowjob in my car. When I am even luckier, I get a job. Not referring to any harmless oral sex here, though this can of course have some fatal consequences, too. During the Clinton era, it was one plain blowjob that terminated America´s last chance for any functioning democracy.

Saturday, September 11th, 2004

It is shortly past ten p.m. and I enter the nightclub. The owner of this very dump is Will, a black man, I know him from those days back yonder, from my early days. He already had some criminal tendencies; he was arrested on and off, but always got off with some slap on the wrist. Will or “Wild Willy” as we used to call him, never spent too long in jail. By the way, I myself personally never spent any time behind the bars, but the 12 years I spent in the army, came down to the same. I signed up in my younger years, to serve my country that way. There, in the army, you definitely learn to shoot. There you defiantly learn precisely to kill.

I sit down at the bar, keep my hat on, order a double bourbon on ice and ask for Will. The waitress, Carmen, grabs the phone, she is definitely easy on the eyes. One minute later, my old pal shakes my hand. “Hi Frank!” He welcomes me and when being undisturbed, he states: “Snow White is dead. They found the corpse in the forest, big time headlines in the newspapers. The dead woman in the deadwood, matches somewhat, right?” “Additionally, her last name was Woodman. Abigail Woodman, 22 years and unmarried, I read it in the papers. But why then Snow White?” “Because she was that cute. Here, your $17,000.” Will pushes my share over. “Thank you, Will. “Five up, Frank. Just come over next week, I ´ve got a new client, he contacted me yesterday.” “Well, hopefully not someone being interested to get rid of Wild Willy,” I allow myself to joke. Will laughs back. “Your humor is even blacker than my skin, Frank. “The crass contrast to that, the snow-white cocaine that you always huckster, now then my dear old chap.”

Saturday, September 18th, 2004

It is shortly past ten p.m. and I enter the nightclub. The owner of the dump is Will and he already expected me. “Frankie, old chap, I got something for you.” We sit down at a table in some quiet corner and I actually take my hat off. Will gets started. “The guy was called Boomerang and passed puberty probably some 45 years ago. Must be someone high on top of some decent American corporation, producing weapons. Thus, he lives rather drawn back and wants nothing to do with any public. “Probably, he isn´t standing up to his job.” “None of our interests. Our interest is what he pays, and he pays a five number sums.” “I haven´t ever worked for less, man. For the bucks I would only shoot this bitch of a dog of my neighbor, this thing really sucks big-time with its barking. To make up for it, I would serve it to the old lady as a hot dog that really suits its name. The main dish would be some nice mushroom soup that she would definitely not survive. But well, where we´ve been? Who am I supposed to blow to kingdom come?” “That´s exactly what this Monsieur Boomerang will tell you in person. Tomorrow at three you will have your audience. Only accept cash, ok?” I take a sip off my glass. Sure, it´s ok.

Sunday, September 19th, 2004

Around three in the afternoon. The pompous villa lies a little off track and immediately attracts attention. As much as the name plaque, not to be overlooked. B. Boomerang. I ring the doorbell and wait kind of excited in front of the door. A hussy, somewhere around 30 opens the door. “You´re surely Mr. Winter?” asks the broad, really attractively dressed; I have to acknowledge, after some high-speed full body scans. Only her visage could be prettier. Who is that chick, somehow looking familiar? His daughter? His affair? His wife? His housemaid? Or just the cleaning woman? It must be either his daughter or his affair. Or his wife, the housemaid and cleaning woman as one.

“Are you Mr. Winter now?” Forced to hear the question a second time. I nod, wordless and enter the house. We traipse through some rooms to the terrace, there; I am welcomed by Mr. Boomerang, pretty well conserved for his age, actually. “Hi Mr. Boomerang, Fred Winter.” We shake hands. “Ben Boomerang. Ok, Mr. Winter, straight away. My wife Kylie was murdered a few days ago. I can imagine, who it was and don´t ever want to see the person alive. “Hear ya. Okay, no problem. The price. One person twenty thousand! Two person´s thirty eight, three persons fifty thousand.” “No, eighteen thousand for one and I count on you.” Eighteen isn´t too bad, fifteen percent for Will. The last job via this Italian with his theocratic tendencies brought some 2,000 more, but well, you shouldn´t brag during a recession and while forced to handle all the concurrence from the former East. That´s business

“You can count on me, Mr. Boomerang, you can count on me. Eighteen is ok, but cash, please.” My new business partner excuses himself, shortly leaves the room and then hands the bundle of notes over. I count them and am definitely content. Then we shake hands again, the contract, a done deal. Ben Boomerang directs me to the living room. “I show you a picture of my wife.” He takes a framed photo from the shelve and shows it to me. “That is your wife Kylie?” I take my hat off and scratch my head. “Yes, exactly, we were just freshly married in Europe some three weeks ago. In Paris, the city of love. Kylie was her pet name, no one else but me called her that way. The change of personal status and name were not transmitted to the county yet, thus, the authorities were only informed somewhat later about the marriage, of course, and I informed them.

I study the photo of Abigail Woodman, as if I would have never seen it before. “Mmmh, who could have killed her now?” I ask him. “I am rather sure, her ex. He was allied with her for two months. “They married fast. Who is the ex?” “A hot-blooded Italian from the south.” That is right, as right as rain. But he only hijacked her and it was me, shooting her. With a pistol. In the forest. The dead woman in the deadwood. The little mobster couldn´t probably find any better location that fast, to have her casted in concrete. According to him, he would rather shit his pants than kill his ex girl and thus consulted Will.

“Yes, I am rather sure it was him, the one, trying to blackmail me. Right after our return from Europe, this Italian high jacked my wife and wanted all my money, wanted to absolutely impoverish me, but I didn´t pay. I didn´t inform the police, they don´t know anything about the high jacking, even today. “So, it´s the Italian?” “Find out, whether this jerk did it. If so, kill him. But when he passed this job, then grab the wop at his balls, and drag his cock as long as some spaghetti, till he spits out the name of the killer.”

Saturday, September 25th, 2004

It is shortly past ten p.m. and I enter the nightclub. The owner of the dump is Will and everything is due to him. We sit down at some table. “How´s it going, Frank? Job done?” “Not yet, Will, but tonight. Here, your $2,700.” I push over his share. “But it is really a shit job, Will.” “Hey, it cannot be that bad, right? Where is your humor? Are you something like a rabbit that I asked to dig some tunnel through the Rockies? “No, man, even worse. This time it is a really damn lousy shit job. But I´m going to do it.” “Ok, Frank, you are outmost dutiful, reliable and never fail. Who should know better then me? C´mon, I´ll buy you for a drink.” Will whistles for the waitress that serves the double bourbon immediately. But neither the free drink, nor the hottie Carmen help to better my mood. Will takes care, but I would rather beat him up brutally, to then steal his health insurance card, that way the paramedics wouldn´t try to drive him to any hospital in the first place.

Sunday, September 26th, 2004

About three a.m., time to hit the sack. But instead, I drive with my car close to the place, where I shot Abigail “Kylie” Woodman, our Snow White. A dark parking lot is the terminal stop of that drive. I get out of the car and walk deep into the forest. I am proud. That I dare to make that step. In some minutes I will lie dead on the ground. Surely not, because I´d be any suicidal, but because I am determined to do my job well. Because I am dutiful and reliable. The pistol that got Kylie into eternity will get me there, too. Maybe some dog walker will find my corpse? Someone collecting mushrooms? Well, someone sure will. Then, I won´t live on the top floor, but somewhere completely else. Somewhere underground, buried in some cemetery.

Who am I?

I live in some really great villa somewhere in sunny Florida. I sold the nightclub some three months later, after someone found the corpse of Frank in the forest. Karen Woodman meanwhile, did inherit all the millions of her father, being more than dead sick and tied to his bed, when she contacted me, to get rid of her sister, that was never ever married anyway, by the way. Snow White must die, she said to me, ice-cold. Her jealousy for her beautiful sister and the greed for the money washer motive. The police were sure about Frank, being the killer, that planned a blackmail that went wrong and then killed himself.

Everything was staged. The name plaque on the Villa Woodman was shortly and temporarily changed. A good old business partner of mine was allowed to play Mr. Boomerang. Karen Woodmen, my boss, the lady at the counter and Emilio, the Colombian drug carrier, the money greedy Italian ex. All persons, where I was sure, that Frank couldn´t know them. And I was sure, that Frank was reliable and dutiful and did every job 100 percent even, when it hurts. Regarding his health, Frankie should have rather become President. Since Kennedy, no one has gotten that severely caught, even if Lewinsky would have bitten harder.

Karen Woodman paid me well. From now on: No jobs passed out to any contract killers, no drug business, and no crooked dealings. No, nothing anymore in that direction. I lead a respectable life, together with my former employee Carmen. who I married meantime. Not in Europe though, but we already married. In some small chapel somewhere in the States. And this time, no lie.

Snow White must die – Epilog

Who am I?

I live in some really great villa somewhere on this planet. It was no problem to pay the contract killer, because Will is dead rich. This time he himself was the victim, well, that´s life. He was always a mean rat; he had to have so many skeletons in the closet that you could hardly count them at all. His scrutiny was the basis of his huge fortune. Okay, he bettered himself somewhat in the end, but he already bunkered money big times, without end.

I got myself a completely new identity, and I´m not reacting to the name Carmen at all, ever. And when someone in the bar whistles for me and orders a drink, then I do not feel addressed at all. My very high consumption of cocaine lead the new pet name: Snow White …

Perhaps it’s time to take a step back,
Visualise myself standing on a hill with fresh breeze waving against my skin,
Let my imaginative eye look down memory lane,
Then let flash backs of my young life flow.

From the little girl with a vivid imagination,
Dreams to reach for the stars,
Ambitions that pulsate on her veins.

Right up to the moments I lost my innocents,
Brought life into this universe,
My daughter whom my heart cannot do without.

Let me acknowledge the eighteen hour day,
Eighteen hours of hard labour,
All because I have a womb,
All because I have a heart.

I cry because I’m human,
I fight because I cannot run forever,
I smile because I need to,
I dream because I’m worth better,
I live because my maker’s desires pends fulfillment,
I’m me
And then a woman.

The sun has gone down again. I’m left alone with my thoughts and myself. My fancy car is parked away and my expensive clothes mean nothing now. It’s as if the world is laughing at me. I have worn a smile on my face throughout the day, yet I have not managed to deceive myself. My job title does wonders during the day but as soon as the sun sets I’m a nobody. My million dollar fake smile is gone and all that is left of me does not exist. I look straight into my eyes and still I cannot admit how unhappy I am. My worldly portrait has chipped away pieces of the true me. I smile and switch off the lights. I have sold my sanity and I’m still gonna do it before the sun sets.

If my heart could speak
It would whisper your name,
And it will resonate throughout my body.
It would sing the joy you’ve brought me.
The sorrows of my echoed past.
The fear of this new ocean feelings.

Oh if my heart could speak
It will speak the divine language of your heart.
As our souls meet and intertwine, it will only speak your name.
It will keep you close with its coarse tongue and naïve eyes

Yes my heart speaks to u.
It calls your name and you answer.
Its rhythmic dance that can only be mirrored by your heart.
So listen closely, hear your name…

When God created us I think he was bored and wanted playmates.
God no Heff but God know Heff.

He wanted to see who’d play along.
He wanted to see who’d play the Hero, who’d play the fool.
Who’d be a playa- player and chill with players only.

He wanted to see who’d play God, who’d play the villain and try outplay the G.
He wanted to see who was great enough to survive this grimy play ground.
Who’d be the Queen or King on it.
Who’d get bullied or have their hearts played with.

He gave us stage for us to have our house plays.
Gave us the notion of love then we started to play play-play.
played happy families where mom said to “never play the ball in the house” but who gave her the platform to play boss

So he gave us earth and the ball was now in play.
God have messi on this playstation because we didn’t nintend for foul play.
sadly we humans didn’t play fair so we lost our playwright.

We played a weak hand and wasted our playtime.
Now we play along and play possum.
Continue to play our parts, as life plays a silly joke on us.
We played with fire and forgot to pray with god.

Sitting in my room just waiting for her to break the news.
I haven’t bothered to turn on the lights, it always seems to hurt my eyes, I don’t want this as I retreat to my hidden fortress to escape the endless blabber that seems to dominate the surroundings of my domain.

I must have been sitting staring at the wall for hours before an abrupt silence took hold of the over crowded house.
I knew what was going to happen and to be quaintly honest I was looking forward to it, but I wasn’t going to make it any easier for anyone by giving a hint to my knowledge or indifference.

The whole scene was so predictable, it was as if I had seen it all before in a play or lived through it a thousand times in a dream.
Trapped in a web of a continuous spiral of déjà vu, I count down the seconds before she comes…
There it is, that painful light flooding the room stinging my eyes as if it were heavily salted water, she moves slowly with that all too common pathetic look stamped onto her face. God, it’s as if I’m already dead and she has been given the tedious task of identifying my rotten remains.
I can’t remember what she said, in truth I wasn’t listening, rather I was watching her lips move, she smiled and tried oh so hard to keep it sincere.

I’m at the airport, I have no memory of how I got here, only the calculated waves of t amnesia that floods my mind every so often. Did I use again?
I can’t remember, but the familiarity of this feeling is comforting to an exhausting degree.
Although numb, I can still feel the piercing stares of the putrid people around me, like small daggers slowly being pushed into my skin I’m all to accustom to such madness.
I welcome it, let these maggots stone me with judgment while they gaze down their hawk like noses at the monstrous disease I’ve become.

Its time to board the plane, I still have no idea where I’m going, but then again it doesn’t really matter. Why should I care? Everything is exactly the same. Each day a copy of a copy of a copy, no face is new, each sound is a B flat and no expression reveals any proof of sanity.
As I move the people shift away as if I’m contagious, I can’t help but smile, or maybe I broke out in frantic laughter, I can’t remember. Either way I’m satisfied, what better than to have your atmosphere twist and dissolve to try get away from you. The thought is a delightfully arousing one.

I’m sitting in my seat, though I don’t recall finding it.
I crave stillness and silence so that I can escape the light and surrender to my thoughts, but I’m stuck here, on this forsaken airplane, God knows why and who knows where.
I try to make sense of the happenings but I soon loose interest and follow the grey hounds in my head on their hunt for a fox or prize rabbit.
Anything to prevent myself from being consumed by the chaos around me.
I must have promised to be good.

I’m stolen from the hunt by an assembly of screams. I can’t describe my annoyance with this.
This plane that I loathed with every fragment of my being was going down, I smiled. My mind slowed, my eyes healed and I felt my heart at ease,
I will soon have my dark, uninterrupted stillness, soon I will rejoin the hunt and banish this world from my thoughts, I will be free of chains and the cold hard floor will never again pull at my skin.

I was quiet my choice not by nature.
People passed me off as shy or simply thought I had no opinions of my own.
The truth is I burn with opinions. The speeches I have recited in my mind are profound and without fault.
I have mastered them leaving no room for debate or the trace of incompetence.
My name is Garrick Owen Dagan and this is my living hell.

My audience stared at me as if a flock of moronic sheep, it was as if they were deaf to all my words but were startled by the noise.
I have waited for my moment of glory and now that i have it i realise it means nothing, people are ignorant to their ignorance or they have chosen to ignore everything that inconveniences them.

I felt an eternal emptiness within me fuelled by a hatred, a hatred i had never before felt for my own kind but how, how were they so blind? Why was it that i could not be part of the unthinking majority? I felt an overwhelming temptation to destroy them, i felt that i would at any moment explode and engulf them all.

My body began to shake, it felt as though every fragment of my being was on the verge of setting alight. The sensation had flooded my mind and was set to massacre the people who stood in front of me.

Without thought or my permission words escaped me, for once they were without the soft tone people had grown accustomed to, my words were raw and i did not know them until they were expelled from me.

How does one describe in words the frustration.
Frustration that has seized the very existence of free thought.
Conjured up from a blistered mind you have falsely accuse life of having purpose.

When the once cold and potent realizations are forsaken, new strategy plungers out their ridged edges and they will cut you as the form alien ideas.
They will dominated your beliefs with strict and violent authority, for fear of madness you will cower away leavening the enraged quake of foreign images to rampage through your head
disqualifying any foreseeable solace.
Allow yourself to become acquainted with the idea, for though I doubt you could imagine
the severe harshness and therefore the severe importance of this testing ordeal, your once naïve and repetitive existence is coming to an abrupt end.

I ran. i ran as fast as my body would allow.

Was those words or just thoughts? i Was unsure, how was i to be sure?
My audience would pass me off as a mad man now. I am lost without them, driven to madness with them.

What is why, why is why asked or pondered.
Why why?
Perhaps its not the answer that matters but instead its that there is an answer.
Perhaps its not the unknown that scares us but the fact that there is an unknown.
Maybe we ask the question for the answer not to know why but instead to know that there is an answer.

So then why.
What compels us to need to know that there is a known.
Curiosity?
Instinct? Couldn’t be instinct.
Fear.

I know fear is what drove me to be the person I am.
So am I just a product of predictable emotion?
A being that has been designed not by life experiences but the fear of them?
Probably.

I crave sense but am driven to find that which does not make sense.
I want order but am constantly creating ways to disturb it.
I am a creature of contradictions. A living breathing thing that dos not live but instead questions why.

Why ask why?
Why why?
Perhaps its not the answer that matters but instead its that there is an answer.